A grim wind was blowing across compound, settling into the corners and moaning against the earth. The band was gathered in the north end, facing the entrance, Slayer and his Second standing to the side. The men weren’t formed into rows, they jittered, and their postures slouched, but they stood with a martialness which traced back to the first hunters standing solemnly on the savannah. As Jenkins’ dark-cloaked figure drifted through the entrance, they all went down to one knee. The priest moved towards them, hands clasped.
Wentworth’s eyes narrowed. Some of this was ritual that he understood, but there were other elements he didn’t recognize. Next to him, Raxx furrowed his brow. The elements he recognized were frightening.
Slayer’s face was dark and serious. His Second’s, void. The assembled band glistened with the same sweat and anger as the night before, but now it was controlled, transmuted into a new form.
The Elder kept his visage remote.
He reached them, walking slowly up and down the makeshift lines, staring hard into each one’s eyes before pacing to the next. His robes drank in the light, a carbon cut-out from the dust and the shine. His movements were deliberate, his gaze was inevitable. The wind’s sad moaning was the only voice raised against him.
He paused at the final set of eyes then walked away, taking up a position in front of the assembled band. He raised his arms — for a moment even the wind silenced — and then, projecting from deep within his chest, he started chanting in a melodic tongue.
Up on the cliff side, the distant hum of it reached the two watchers. “It’s Latin,” whispered Raxx
“How do these jokers know Latin?…you manage to catch any of it?”
The Mechanic grimaced, “I only know a few words,” He shook his head, “Couldn’t even guess.”
“Looks like they’re done anyway.”
Jenkins continued speaking for some time, but without the chanting projection only a deep sibilance reached the men on the cliff. Upon finishing the speech his body seemed to close in on itself, hands clasping; effectively dismissing those gathered. Within a heartbeat Slayer’s Second had bounded to his feet, facing the men. A set of sharp, terse orders burst from him, he gestured fiercely. The men stood and scattered, returning to their previous tasks. The Second watched them go with an intense aspect, while Slayer stood and walked over to Jenkins.
Wentworth could see his lips moving, his hand itched for the binoculars — but there were too many eyes that might notice the glint.
Jenkins responded with a slow nod.
The three walked slowly to the hangar, past the other men who had returned to their previous work. When they had disappeared into its depths, Wentworth’s shoulders relaxed.
“Looks like you were right,” he pulled his canteen out of his belt, unscrewing the cap, “Right about Jenkins. He’s no victim. There’s something in him now that wasn’t there before.”
“It was always there. It was just hidden under false piety.”
Wentworth swished the water around his mouth, washing away the sleep. The Mechanic seemed to have a penchant for archaic language. “Raxx, if there’s something going on here that you understand and I don’t, I’d appreciate it if you told me.”
Raxx chewed his lip ring for a moment, then lit a cigarette to collect his thoughts. “Wentworth — here’s the thing — you’ve been a lot of places, and seen a lot of things, but sometimes I think you miss a lot of what makes people tick. If you don’t agree with what some group thinks, well, then you just sort of dismiss them.”
He raised an eyebrow, “You know as well as I the type of nonsense most of them believe in. You said yourself, last week, how they don’t accept the truth, even when you hand it to them on a silver platter. How’s that relevant?”
“If you’re going to predict what they’re going to do, then you need to know what they think.”
“To a certain extent, sure, but listen, Raxx — when you get right down to it they all basically think the same. Doesn’t matter what city you go to, you watch their movements, you look at their faces, and you can figure out ninety percent of what they’re all about. Add on another nine percent if you hear them talk for a few minutes. Any of the cultural stuff just isn’t that important. Maybe if you’re trying to live with them, then maybe it matters, but when you’re trying to figure out whether or not they’ll riot?” he shook his head, “Get right down to it, they’re all just animals.”
“I’m not explaining it right. It’s like — okay, how about this — remember what you were saying last week about the difference between tactics and strategy?”
“To be honest, not really. But if I said something like: ‘Tactics is the Battle, Strategy is the War,’ then yeah.”
“That’s what I mean. You’re talking about — knowing if someone’s about to go for their knife, or whatever — reading their body language — that’s the tactics of the situation, right? And I’m not saying that you’ve got any problems there. You’ve got the ninety-nine percent. But to figure out the strategy — to figure out what someone’s going to be doing, not five minutes from now, but five days from now — you need that other one percent. It doesn’t matter in a bar fight, but when you’ve got a mess like the one down in that mine pit there — well, yeah. Knowing why they’re doing what they’re doing will tell you what they’re going to do.”
Wentworth tapped his fingers then pulled out a cigarette for himself. “Okay… let’s say you’re on to something. What does that mean here? What’s that one percent that I’m missing?”
Raxx let out an exasperated breath, “Honestly, I’m mostly going by instinct right now; something’s bugging me about them, but I don’t totally understand. I guess… I’ve seen other groups that are like them. I’ve seen this sort of behaviour before.” He took a puff of his cigarette, “It’s the religion. It’s there in the corner, motivating them — they’re confident about something — too confident. Like they know something they couldn’t. Nobody gets that way without religion involved.”
“Religion…” During their conversation his subconscious had been breaking down the band’s milling about. A pattern was beginning to emerge. “I guess that makes sense. There was a reason they tried to ban it before the War, after all. Maybe if they’d done a better job…”
“Don’t blame that on religion. It didn’t start the war.”
“Yeah, well, maybe not. Anyway, that’s a conversation for another time. I think I’m beginning to suss out the organizational structure of these guys.”
As the day wore on, a sheet of clouds rolled across the sky, dimming the light to a washed-out grey. The sweat and dust of the morning had given way to an unseasonable cool. Several crickets mistook it for dusk. Jenkins stayed holed up in the hangar, and Slayer’s band carried on as before. The clang of metal on metal, and the grunt of meat on meat did little to fill the silent air.
Atop the cliff, they’d divided up the responsibilities. Raxx kept a close eye on the small group servicing their vehicles. He watched them perform various minor repairs and maintenances. Every so often he’d make notes about the vehicles’ conditions.
Wentworth stayed focussed on the bulk of the men. They were clustered in three separate groups, spread out across the cleared area of the compound. The group furthest from them, lined up by the side of the hangar, were practicing weapons drills. One of the sergeants he’d spotted earlier, a wiry man with eye-liner tattoos, had been demonstrating the operation of different small arms — thankfully no heavy weapons, just rifles and submachine guns — then when that was over, they’d started target practice with a dozen-odd cross bows of different manufacture. Wentworth surmised that they must not have any chemists in their group; that would explain why they were conserving ammunition.
Another group was gathered out front of the hangar, closer to the cliff face. A heavy-set sergeant with a thick, black beard had been running them through different combative drills. The moves he was teaching were a mixture of boxing and some of the more ornamental martial arts. Nothing too impressive, but it would be enough for the local Mennite population.
It was the third group that had him most worried. They were spread throughout the structures abutting the entrance, practicing different run-and-gun manoeuvres. Some of them he recognized — ripped straight from the pages of documents in his Datapad. Their sergeant was a man almost as large as Slayer himself, with a sheer black mohawk across his head. He drove the other band members at a frantic pace, firing them through the moves, repeating them, forcing them to get it right.
He was getting a bad feeling about this. They were unskilled, but weren’t amateurs. These men would know how to work as a team.
“Looks like they’re not just mechanics.”
“Huh?” he’d been so focussed on what the others were doing; he’d missed seeing the group working on the vehicles wander off towards the hangar.
“It looks like they’re cooks, too.”
“Porters.” Several had grabbed some of the raided supplies on their way to the kitchen. “So, learn anything about their fleet?”
“The vehicles? Yeah. They’re all in working order, the worst are a couple that’re burning oil. There might be a couple of other minor problems, I couldn’t say about the alignment — oh yeah, one of them’s got bad suspension — but none of that’ll stop them from moving. I don’t think these guys are the one that restored them, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
Raxx shook his head, “The work they were doing wasn’t that good — the guy with the welding torch seemed okay, but welding the body-panels on like he was doing isn’t something I’d expect to see from a mechanic that cares. These guys are good enough to keep ’em running, but I don’t think they’ll be able to maintain them for long. I’d guess they stole them from one of the Chicago caravans, except that those troupes carry some serious armaments.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t second guess yourself, Raxx. You see that group running around the sheds there? What sort of organization do you notice?”
Raxx stared down at them for a long moment, lips parted. “Well, they seem to be working in teams of two.”
“They are — but look bigger. They’re also working in bigger teams of four, and two big teams of eight.”
“…okay, I think I see what you’re saying.”
“Remember what I said about the two of us doing this together?”
“You said the difference was exponential, not linear?”
“Yeah. Well, the same idea here. These guys are organized, and some of the manoeuvres they’re using are based on lots of history and practice. It’s a good thing we didn’t try and take them out last night — drunk or not, at least a few of them would have reacted in time. They aren’t good at what they do — but they’re working together.”
“That’s bad, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. So what are we gonna do then?”
“I don’t know. A direct assault would be too risky at this point. There’s still the question of Jenkins though — I want to know how he’s mixed up with these guys. Those Mennites don’t really seem the type to mix with Slayer and his men. They’re too insular.”
“I agree. They barely mix with the people in Hope, even though they’re trading. Just look at how they treated us.”
“Exactly. I want to know what that relationship’s all about before I make any decisions.”
“Hey — those guys are breaking. Looks like they’re going for lunch.”
“Maybe Jenkins will finally come out.”
A semi-circle of tables had been setup at the opening of the hangar. The band took their seats, facing inwards. There were no signs of segregation between the groups. The porters had just begun to bring out the food, when Slayer, his Second, and Jenkins appeared. They walked out of the shadows, towards the empty table at the centre of the half-circle, manned by three scavenged chairs. The ornate metal throne had disappeared.
Once the meals were delivered, and everyone was else sitting, Jenkins spoke a brief formality. The assembly responded with formalized gestures and an incoherent mutter, then started eating. Their behaviour was subdued; only the occasional elbow prod or chuckle. The meal looked warm, and Wentworth felt himself growing hungry. A groan from Raxx’s gut confirmed he wasn’t alone in this, but with Jenkins present neither dared look away.
The three men at the head of the table ate in silence. A lopsided valley — Slayer, Jenkins, and the Second. Any conversation had already finished. They ate with a grim confidence which didn’t need glances for moral support. Instead, they watched the rest of the band.
A hint of nervousness was trickling through the ranks. Any joviality seemed forced, and though it was hard to tell from the watchers perspectives, it seemed that none of the band were making eye contact with their leaders. As the meal drew to a close nervous twitches abounded — bouncing knees, tapping fingers — they no more knew what to expect than the watchers on the cliff.
Then the Second stood.
The dust seemed to settle as the band froze.
Walking casually, he approached the same hanging clutch-plate which had announced a young man’s death the night before. He picked up the cudgel which lay next to it. With a deliberate, forceful strike — the din seemed to rarify the air throughout the mine site — Jenkins stood, and his speech cut through the stilled air.
“Children,” his arms were opened lovingly, his visage full of assurance, “You have come. You have survived the filth and the tribulations. It has come time for you to no longer be the abject — for though you knew it not, you men before me are the faith. I came here this day so that you might learn the first of the mysteries.
“Your shepherd has brought you to me purified. He has guided and uplifted you from hell. But though you were uplifted, still always you saw nought but the next field of green. You sought only the harvest, not the seeds with which to sow the field. And further, the green lived on only in the presence of the shepherd — you knew not how to find it should you abandon the faith.”
His vision paused on several of the seated, the sergeants and one of the porters. “Some amongst you, I can see, have learned this vision for yourselves. And yet you remain — for you do not understand from where this vision arises.”
“You men are the children of filth and apocalypse. In a broken world, only the broken can understand.” He paused for a breath, looking vacantly at the assembly. Then a demonic fury inflamed his features, “In a world of filth, it is the filthy who are filthy no more! With my arrival the prophecy is fulfilled — it is by the seven heads that this beast shall arise, and woe unto those who seek not the new world! It is written that they shall burn, as many did, but still they shall burn again! Death has arrived — the wages of sin are of the past — now comes the hour when the blind shall be cast down!”
The band was captivated, trembling at his pronouncements. Even the men seated at his side waxed pale.
“The sodomite era is now! For we shall reap what they sow!”
“We shall reap what they sow!” shouted the body of men.
He stopped speaking. Tremors ran through the audience, jerks and twitches moving through the spine. He stayed silent, slowly his body composed itself.
“But now I must go, children. The hour draws nigh.”
Slayer’s second fell down to one knee. One by one, then en mass, the rest kicked their chairs out and mimicked his pose.
“There shall be further mysteries in times to come… think on what I have told you this day.” Abruptly he turned ninety degrees and began walking away.
“This is it! Wentworth — we need to take that guy, and the rest of it will fall apart.”
Raxx’s voice snapped Wentworth away from the gathering — for a moment he was stunned at the great distance between him and Jenkins, and the immediateness of his own environment.
“What’s ‘it’? What do we need to do with him?”
“Listen, it’s all jumping around my head still — it makes sense, I just haven’t sorted it out yet — Jenkins isn’t just the ringleader, he’s the whole thing — we gotta take him now, before he gets back to Hope. If we crack it there, the whole thing comes falling down like a house of cards. Listen, Wentworth, he’s almost gone already, I—” Raxx paused mid breath. His eyes were wide, and the gears behind them were spinning violently. “Trust me on this. We take him now, it’ll all crack. I can’t explain it.”
Wentworth stared at him. Every instinct, every knee-jerk, argued against trusting an unguarded argument. He’d see men die over that. But before this he’d always had a counter argument, or at least an educated doubt to fall back on. Today; with this man, and these locals; he was at a loss. Raxx had been raised on superstition and false promises. But he’d also learned the science of auto mechanics.
“You’re sure about this?” It was the mercenary part of him speaking. A simple cost/benefit analysis had swayed the argument.
“I’m damn near positive.”
“Then let’s get back to your truck.”